My father is Black, my mother is Jewish. This line I served weakly, weekly, to enquiring minds throughout my youth, never once realising I was describing two Others rather than myself. I offered The Answer quietly to rapt audiences thrice my age, calling time on investigations that once took me all the way to my great-great grandparents. Can we stop now? During The Reckoning of 2020, Black people the world over said “enough”. As we had before. As we will again. Inside, I, too, felt that great fury; and I also felt a little fraud. How much of the pain did I share? How much of the pain did I cause? I clocked my sun-free lockdown arms incredulously -- for surely my skin had never been this white before. Pinpointing my position between survivor and apologist, I parsed the hidden memories, and attempted to locate a definitive answer to the question I’d been asked repeatedly, curiously, demandingly, my whole life: And what was I?
